When the Cypress Whispers (11 page)

“Yes, a miracle, Daphne
mou
.” Nitsa bowed her head. She made the sign of the cross three times and dug her crucifix out from between her breasts, kissing it before continuing with her story.

“All around us, on Kerkyra and on the mainland, people were murdered, starved, and tortured. But not here. Here, no one was killed. The German soldiers were vicious, evil, I tell you, Daphne. They massacred many innocent people on Corfu. But none here.” She nodded slowly, deliberately.

“Everyone expected the worst, but your
yia-yia
, she knew. She had faith. Even when others feared that there would not be enough food, that the soldiers would turn violent, or that in desperate times we would turn against each other—she knew better. Even when everyone on the island was panicked, she remained calm and insisted we would be rewarded for our acts of kindness, for helping each other as well as the young mother who came to live among us. And she was right. Your
yia-yia
knew, just like she always does.”

“She never really talked to me about the war.”

“They were difficult times, Daphne
mou
. Times best left forgotten, left in the past. We all have deep scars from that time. And as it is with scars, it is often best not to pick and prod at our wounds, but to try and forget they are there. We pray that somehow, eventually, over time we will heal. There is always a reminder, a permanent mark on our skin, on our soul—maybe they will fade with time, but they will never truly disappear—but sometimes it is best to try and pretend they do.”

Nitsa slapped at the ashes that had dropped on her skirt. “
Ella
, you were asking me about Yianni, and I went on and on about old times and old women. Just like an old woman, eh? What did you want to know about Yianni?”

“Why is he here? I mean, if his family left after the war, why did he come back?”

“My girl, I have asked myself the same thing. He is an educated man. So what he’s doing here, among the fishermen and the old women? I do not really know. But I do know that he never goes to church.” Nitsa laughed as she picked a piece of tobacco from her tongue.

“No friends?”

“None. Just his nets and his books. That is all.”

“His books?”

“Yes—when he is not working on his boat, he can be found here, at the bar.” Nitsa motioned toward the bar area. “He comes in—sometimes it’s frappe, sometimes brandy, but no matter what the drink, there is always a book. He inhales those books the way I do these.” She laughed as she lit yet another cigarette.

“But there is one thing, Daphne,” she continued. “A few weeks ago he was here, sitting at the end of the bar, with his brandy and a book.” She laughed as she waved her lit cigarette in the air, leaving a series of smoke rings in its wake. “It was late, very late, and everyone had had a lot to drink, even me. I was a little drunk,” she admitted with a chuckle, shrugging.

“I left to go to bed. But I forgot my glasses, and as I came down the stairs a few minutes later to get them, I saw Yianni with his arms around Sophia. He was holding her very, very tight. He stood holding her for a moment, and then he put his arm around her waist and she buried her neck in his shoulder and they walked out into the night together. So while I don’t know if you could call them friends”—Nitsa chortled—“I think Yianni did more than read his book that night.”

So Yianni’s not as wonderful as Yia-yia would like to believe, Daphne thought to herself. There’s nothing different or special about him at all. She sighed.

She didn’t quite understand it; as of this morning she’d had nothing but contempt for the man. But now, sitting here as Nitsa divulged this rare glimpse into Yianni’s true character, Daphne was surprised to realize that she actually felt somewhat disappointed. But in what exactly, she wasn’t so sure. Was she disappointed in Yianni, for being the kind of man who would bed a married woman? In Yia-yia, for so blindly having faith in this man who suddenly turned up on her door with nothing but a name and a story from long ago? Or was it in herself, for momentarily wavering, questioning the very strong and very negative first impression she had of the man?

“Daphne, come tonight for dinner.” Nitsa stabbed her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. “Come, as my guest. I want to give you a gift, a beautiful dinner with your family before your
Amerikanos
arrives.” She rose from her seat and headed toward the kitchen.

“That would be wonderful, Thea. Let me just ask Yia-yia—”

“There is nothing to ask. I will call her for you.” And with that, Thea Nitsa exited the hotel. She stood on the small marble stoop, cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone, and literally called Yia-yia across the island.

“Evan-ge-liaaaaa. Evan-ge-liaaa!” she shouted.

It took a few seconds, but the reply came loud and clear from above the olive trees. “
Ne?
”

“Evangelia,
ella
. . . You and Daphne will come to the hotel for dinner tonight, all right?”

“
Ne
,
entaksi
.”

“There, it is done.” Thea Nitsa wiped her hands on her apron as she came back inside the hotel. “Ten o’clock, eh. This is Greece, we eat at civilized hours, not like your Americans who eat so early.”

And with that, Nitsa was off to begin her lunch shift, mumbling the entire way as she did. “Eating dinner at five o’clock, what’s wrong with those Americans?” She shook her head. “So uncivilized,” she mumbled, leaning down, cigarette dangling from her fingers as she scratched at her inner thigh before disappearing into the kitchen.

Fifteen

E
RIKOUSA

1999

The drying bundles of oregano hung on every surface, from every rafter of the root cellar. Wrapped in clusters of a dozen or so sprigs, the drying herbs peppered the air with their pungent scent. Daphne felt a tickle in her nose each time she reached up on her toes to pull down one of the fragrant packages. One by one she pulled them from the ceiling and tossed them into the giant white sheet she had laid on the floor.

Just two weeks ago, soon after Daphne arrived in Greece, Yia-yia had packed a lunch of cold
patatopita
and they had spent the day side by side on the mountain picking the wild oregano. Now Yia-yia had deemed the oregano sufficiently dried and ready for shredding.

“Daphne,
etho
. Bring them here. I’m ready,” Yia-yia called out from the patio.

With folded towels placed under their knees to protect them from the hard patio below, Daphne and Yia-yia knelt side by side on a second clean white bedsheet. One by one, they placed each bundle on the mesh metal shredder. They rubbed their hands across the drum and watched as the dried tiny leaves fell to the sheet below like a fragrant rainfall.

The entire ritual took the better part of the morning, taking Daphne away from her customary solitary swim in the cove. But Daphne didn’t mind one bit. She was in heaven right here, down on her knees, up to her elbows in dried oregano, and singing along with her pink radio, which blared Greek music from the kitchen.

“Daphne
mou
.” Yia-yia shook her head as she watched Daphne sing along with yet another old, melodramatic love song. “Sometimes I think you were born in the wrong time. You, so modern and American, yet you’re drawn to that drama as if you were a lonely old woman reflecting back on her life, or perhaps an ancient longingly watching the sea for her love to return. These are songs for lonely old women, not beautiful young girls.”

“Did you do that, Yia-yia?” Daphne reached her hand out and placed it on Yia-yia’s shoulder. She could feel her bones beneath the fabric. “Did you sit here and watch the sea for Papou to return?” Yia-yia rarely spoke of Papou, Daphne’s grandfather, who had disappeared during the war. He had kissed his wife and infant daughter good-bye one morning and boarded a
kaiki
with eight other men. The plan was for them to pool their money and go to Kerkyra to buy enough supplies to last the winter. But Papou never did make it to Kerkyra. His boat was never found. Papou and the seven other men onboard were never heard from again.

“Ahhh, Daphne.” Yia-yia sighed. It was a deep mournful sigh that Daphne thought might lead to a lament song, but it did not. “I did,” she confirmed as she continued to sift through the oregano, shredding the leaves as she stared out toward the faraway horizon.

“I sat here, under the big olive tree, day in and day out, and I watched and waited. First there was hope, hope that he would return. I sat here with your mother at my breast, gazing out to the sea like Aegeus searching for Theseus’s white sail. But no sail emerged from the horizon. No black sail, no white sail. Nothing. And unlike Aegeus, I could not throw myself into the sea below as I dreamed of doing so many times. I was a mother. And then, it seemed, a widow as well.”

Yia-yia lifted her fingers to straighten her scarf and once again turned her full attention to the oregano. Now, as always, there was work to be done, tasks to be completed, preparations to make for the harsh winter ahead. Now, just as back then, there was no time for mourning the past, for what had happened and what might have been. Now, just as back then, self-pity was unwelcome here. They finished bottling the last of the oregano in silence, Yia-yia’s fingers tightening the lids with no hint of the chronic arthritic pain that permeated each of her joints.

It had only been a few months since that day in the lecture hall when she first locked eyes with Alex. It had been merely weeks since their hand-holding and kissing were no longer enough, and she finally agreed to go back to the dorm with him, to lie with him in his twin bed and make love until the sun set and it was time to return home. Now that she knew what it was like to lie next to him, twirling her fingers in his hair as he slept, she ached to think of what it must have been like for Yia-yia, reaching her hand out in the bed and finding no one, nothing but emptiness.

That day, under the olive tree, as her nose twitched from oregano dust, Daphne’s heart broke for the first time. It broke not because of a boy. She was falling in love with Alex, and falling hard—the only pain she felt right now was the reality of their separation.

That morning under the olive tree, Daphne’s heart broke because she finally recognized that when Papou failed to come back, Yia-yia had lost not only her husband but any chance of a better life. Unlike the stories of brave Odysseus and stoic and patient Penelope that Yia-yia loved to repeat over and over again, there was no epic myth or legend to be found in what had happened to Yia-yia. When Papou was lost, her future prospects turned as dark as the black uniform she was bound to wear for the rest of her life.

In that moment, Daphne made a promise to herself. She would make it right somehow. She would make it easier for Yia-yia. She vowed that she would finish her education, get a job, and work her fingers to the bone to provide for Yia-yia. She would do what Papou never had the chance to do, and what her own mother was desperately trying to do—working all the while against the harsh realities of immigrant life.

After the assorted jars and bottles were safely stored in the kitchen, Yia-yia prepared a simple lunch of broiled octopus and salad. While they had been preparing the oregano, the octopus had been simmering in a pot filled with beer, water, salt, and two whole lemons. After several jabs with her serving fork, Yia-yia finally deemed the octopus sufficiently tenderized. She slathered it with olive oil and sea salt before placing it on the outdoor grill to char.

“Daphne
mou
, do you remember the story of Iphigenia?” Yia-yia began as she removed the octopus from the fire.

“Yes, I love Iphigenia, that poor girl. Can you imagine a father doing that to his own daughter? Tell it to me again, Yia-yia.”

“Ah,
entaksi, koukla mou
. Iphigenia.” Yia-yia removed her plate from her lap, placed it on the table, and wiped her mouth with the hem of her white apron. The old woman once again recited the tale of the tragic young girl whose father, King Agamemnon, sacrificed her to the gods in order to make the winds blow so his men could go off to battle. The king had lied to his wife and daughter, telling them the young princess was to be married to Achilles. Only when the bridal procession reached the altar did the young girl realize she was not to be married, but sacrificed instead.

Daphne shuddered as Yia-yia finished her story. Although it was another oppressively hot day, her flesh erupted in goose bumps. As far back as she could remember, Daphne had loved each and every one of Yia-yia’s stories, but the myth of Iphigenia always lingered with Daphne in a way the others did not. Each time she heard the tale, a vivid picture of a young girl just about Daphne’s age came into her mind. But now the picture was even clearer. Now with Alex in her life, she could feel the excitement Iphigenia must have felt with each step she took closer and closer to her groom. Daphne could picture herself walking to the altar, imagining Alex there waiting for her. She could see his iridescent eyes ablaze, his khakis frayed at the hem.

She could see Iphigenia, wearing a one-shouldered robe embroidered with gold and a wreath of wildflowers woven into her long black hair. She could feel the girl’s anxious excitement as she clutched her mother’s hand and walked through the city streets while the citizens tossed flower petals as she passed. And then, every time Yia-yia got to the part where Iphigenia realized she was to be not wed but murdered, Daphne felt the blood drain from her body, just as if it were her own delicate throat being slit in sacrifice.

“I can’t believe they actually used to do that, Yia-yia. Kill their own children as a sacrifice to the gods. Why would they do that? Why would someone ask for that?”

“Ah,
koukla mou
. There are many things we can’t understand. But don’t be fooled— don’t blame bloodlust solely on the gods. There was a time . . .” Yia-yia gazed at the coffee simmering on the fire. “There was a time when people consulted old soothsayers or young priestesses to decipher the will of the gods. But as is often the case, power corrupts. It is said that even the great soothsayer Calchas had his own motives for sending Iphigenia to her death.” The thick black coffee in the
briki
erupted into a furious boil.

“But don’t worry, my girl. Just as the furies were revealed to be benevolent, so were the gods. When they saw that their wishes were being twisted and translated for the selfishness of man, the great god Zeus became furious. From that moment on, the gods ordained that only older women with pure, open hearts were to translate the gods’ wishes and be given the honor of oracle reader. They knew that only women who had truly known what it is to love another could be trusted, Daphne. Only these women could understand how precious life really is.”

Daphne watched as Yia-yia swirled her coffee in her cup. Where are those supposed benevolent gods and furies now? Daphne wondered. If they had been so just, so fair, as Yia-yia claimed, then why had her own grandmother’s life taken such a tragic turn? She wondered what Yia-yia’s life might have been like if she didn’t have the stigma of the word
widow
attached to her, like a scarlet letter emblazoned on her black dress.

Daphne knew she had been given a glorious gift in being born in America with its opportunities, equality, and dorm rooms to sneak away to. She knew she was lucky to have found Alex, and she wanted nothing more than to continue discovering the nuances of life and love with him. As she looked into her coffee cup, Daphne pictured herself walking through life not alone, as Yia-yia had. She pictured herself holding Alex’s hand—side by side with him, instead of in his shadow. She twirled the cup around and around, imploring the grounds to reveal her life’s journey.

But it was no use. As usual, Daphne could see nothing more than a muddy mess.